A Song of Fate and Fire
by WokeRonin
Summary: Fate's wheels have turned in a different direction in this world. Where once Griffth's will and ambition made him chase his dreams in Midland in the midst of it's 100 year war with Turdor, in this one the Band of the Hawk lands on the shores of Westeros during the War of Five Kings. While Griffth imagines it to be worthier and easier prize, destiny still awaits them all.
1. Kevan I

**Ser Kevan Lannister**

This was not Kevan Lannister's first war and, Seven willing, it wouldn't be his last. War might not be present for awhile, but after living for fifty three years on this earth, he knew it's prolonged absence meant you were no longer part of it's living inhabitants. Even still the smoke rising over from the west over in the Riverlands gave a sinking feeling in his stomach.

How many wars had he fought in at this point? The War of the Ninepenny Kings, the whole foolishness of the Reynes, Robert's Rebellion, Greyjoy's Rebellion, a dozen of other much smaller incidents that usually centered around the Stepstones, and now this bloody embarrassment. The War of Five Kings they called it. Too many to count, and through it all he proved to Tywin and later by extension the Crown his reliability, his iron clad commitment to duty, hell with it his whole damned worth. Yes he could be his brother's right hand plucking, petting, or swatting down whomever he needed done so. And Kevan had done it well up to this point. For sixteen years the Seven Kingdoms knew not only war, but prosperity and yes even periods of peace.

Now though he feared for the future of House Lannister. Westeros was split into four, each rebel claiming a crown for himself. Kevan had no idea who had coined the term War of the Four Kings first, the singers or the Maesters, it was somehow both flowery and forward to the point either would have stood behind it. More ever the title fit the war as smugly as silk glove. The Riverlands were on fire, an army contained it that wished to spread it to both to the Westerlands and down to King's Landing. The Reach, the Stormlands, and Dragonstone aimed to just raze and seize the later.

Rob Stark had been named King of the North, positioning the Riverlands, and possibly the Vale and the Iron Isles, with him. Kevan could only pray it remained that way. Not only had Stark proven to be extremely cunning, but both Jamie and Tywin had both managed to underestimate him. His nephew had always proved to be a hot head, a brilliant and flashy one whose blade almost burn away all those who stood before him behind you, but always blazing ahead without forethought. Tywin had always been so cold though, so removed from what faced their House, that he could see what lay before them so clearly and so accurately. He was a Maester chronically the journey of the stars through Myrish glass telescopes but with people and the world. Yet even he was blind to the threat young Rob Stark possessed.

Now Jamie's host was utterly smashed, he himself taken prisoner, and Tywin's own armies wounded and shattered mostly to the peripheries of the Riverlands. 'Where once we held, we now hold back' Kevan thought to himself, chuckling a bit dryly. Aye the Lannister earlier victories had proven to be very doubled edged once had tasted defeat and where routed. Rob held a large buffer between his primary holdings, plenty of defensive positions, even more targets he could possibly strike at in a relatively short period of time that could possibly end there if he seized or destroyed just one. Now it was almost all they could do right now but stop him from marching west to Lannisport or just Casterly Rock and burn it all to ashes, or head south and repay Joffery in kind for what he did to Eddard Stark. Cersei and her children would be snuffed out in the blink of an eye if they were lucky.

Worse the boy had at least thirty thousand swords with him now. That number could have been an even more fearsome forty, maybe even forty five thousand had the Mountain and his men not been doing such a good job pillaging and disrupting the river lords before the Battle of the Camps. But Kevan knew, and by extension Kevan was sure Tywin surely knew, the Stark boy forces swelled as he waited in the Riverlands. Refugees with a score to settle, poor boys looking for a trade and food, and an extremely motivated nobility now gathering them all.

By the end of the year the Starks' and the Tullys' forces might end up with as many fifty and a half after all, though personally he doubted it. Even if the Mountain dropped dead this moment, along with all his men, the sheer number of peasants displaced and traveling around would spread enough disease, famine, and crime that much of the potential populace would be to disorganized or dead to participate.

Though to be honest he feared the same of Stefford as well. He was a capable ruler and a good man, much like Kevan and Tywin's father has been, but he was as useful as a mummer armed with those bells on a stick they wave in a war. A head for numbers but a body and spine of weak, ploddy snow that one. Still as useless as he proved on a battlefield or even a meeting room shoveling around papers, Tywin was probably right that he might prove capable or at least passable enough to muster and train a new host of men.

Kevan had time to mumble to himself and let out yet another sigh before two guards in red and gold burst into the room, and Kevan put back on his mask of stoicism and indifference. He was free only to engage in self pity when no one was watching, wars were lost over between much less than men's morale being ruined by a commanding officer. Strength needed to be presented, especially when it was nonexistent.

"Ser, we know for sure now, another patrol is missing." One man said, almost yelling as he faced the wall in front of him and not managing to set his eyes on Kevan.

He was far from bosom buddies with the low ranking officers and the rank and file, but how and why they would punish them for delivering news, poor as it was. It seemed reprimanding and possible chastising might be necessary for the ranking knights and noble officers if they had created that impression.

"Another ambush then? That would be the seventh in just two weeks." Kevan said, grabbing and crunching up a piece of parchment detailing accounts of food, weapons, and other provisions. It was now out of date after all and useless to Tywin outside of proving just how inept he was becoming. "The time to write this off as the work of bandits has long past."

"So it's the Brotherhood Without Banners then?" The taller of the two guards asked, his voice dropping suddenly as he realized he was speaking aloud. A large creep of red spread across his face, complimenting his crimson and gold armor well.

"No, that is quite impossible. Currently Lord Dondarrion and his men are harassing the Mountain's vanguard and raiding Tywin's supply lines over near Harrenhal. They've been spotted a mere three days ago, far too many miles for them too move through so quickly, for a rather small target. If I had to bet it would be the Tyroshi sellsword company whom we hired who turned coat or some other mercenary group. Mayhaps a shrewd river lordling."

Kevan had heard some of the Tully's vassals were breaking off from the main forces to try and drive out their forces occupying their lands, quite foolish though he suspected the Stark lad would be putting an end to it. Breaking up the main forces to appease their lords reeked of Edmure's foolishness. A thousand tiny victory and defeats that serve only to drain your strength for the battles that truly matter. But that only cast doubt over this being the work of the Mootons or some other nearby local lord. This was ruthless, cold and calculating work being done not the work of a flaming hot head out for revenge. A shadowcat playing with it's food, but an angry wolf striking out to protect it's pack. Dispatching entire squads and spiriting away the bodies and any survivors to either cells or, more likely, into the hands of trained interrogators, while they sat and waited patiently while his men ransacked, looted, and sometimes outright killed the people of Maidenpool. William was definitely craven enough to lay back and watch his subjects die and his lands burn. But boldly and quietly killing knights whom he could ransom for a bag of golden dragons? Whose families would forever hold a grudge being butchered by the dozens at the time, no doubt on their hands and knees begging for their lives?

No, either a Stark man or agent was behind this or a sellsword. No doubt waiting for the moment the Lannister forces moved on from gathering provisions and either hitting the supply lines hard to mark this entire endeavor a farce or even slaughter them all unawares, except for Kevan himself, and then retake what was left of the town. Depriving Tywin main host of resources, completely an encirclement of Lannister forces at Harrenhal, and getting another high level hostage to gain leverage with. If that wasn't possible a light siege would be in order, would be a great way to tie up a thousand men from the larger war at the very least.

"Well there is little that we can do about it now. Go check on the tax collectors, no doubt there perhaps we can wrangle some more provisions from some very unfortunate and foolish refugees." Kevan said dryly, the enthusiasm bothering him even now after years of doing it. Tax collectors, more like brute squad of state sanctioned knee breaking bandits. "It's best we finish and then leave soon as possible. We're going to have a long and hard march to Harrenhal in front of us. You two are dismissed."

"Milord" Both men shouted, quickly shambling back out into the hall.

Kevan snorted and then after shuffling around papers and ledgers around for a short while followed them out of the room. He couldn't work or even think in there any more. His mind would turn to feelings of impotence and failure whenever he put ink to his letters or look over accounts. The raids. and foresight of Lord Mooton, had ensured that the legitimatized robbery he authorized against the local smallfolk lead to only a tickle food or gold tickling in. Stealing from poverty stricken commoners had little profit as it was, having all their crops seized or burn by their own lords before he could drained it even more; and then having his mean get robbed by sellswords during this process ensured he had only a minuscule amount. Kevan had went through the numbers and went to the storerooms himself to know what he was left with barely enough to feed his own men, with next to nothing left to bring back to Harrenhal.

Kevan grunted to himself as he walked down through the castle's keep to the wall walk of the chemise. The hallways and corridors of low cut stones of various dyes of grey, white, or tan; either furnished with quality woven rugs, artifacts, or laid bare, faded by continued use and pragmatic, careless cleanings and maintenance blended together to him like most castles' decor did. It was in working order and would not offend if honied or frantic talks began here, that was all that matter to him. It was one of Tywin's qualities that Kevan tried and succeeded at emulating well. The only thing that mattered in war, or in peace for that matter, was it's practicality and the most basic message that it sent.

It took only one look outside to see the message was one that he didn't want to send. The gates where smashed like confetti at a feast or mummer show, spewed across various points throughout the town. Kevan had extra footmen and had tried to get groups to clean up the streets, if only to give them something to do and keep discipline from atrophying, but it continued to stain paved roads near the former gates. Likewise the hastily assembled placements looked shabby enough that they would blow away into twigs with a heavy enough gust. Inns, taverns, and even the tailors where either barred shut or carved in. All the huts and houses dotted near some of the gates themselves were burned or smashed to oblivion utter oblivion. Outside of his sentries and a few select servants drawn from the towns people, the town looked almost deserted. Smallfolk squirreled away in fear and hope a continued presence outside might mean death, but remaining inside might prevent the Stranger from paying them a visit.

It was the legendary, namesake pool of Maidenpool that always drew Kevan's eye know when he saw it. He remembered from when he was a lad all the songs and tales of Florian the Fool and Florian the Brave. How the fool had spied the beautiful Jonquil bathing the waters with her sisters and his tragic, one sided romance of the maiden, or of the valiant child warrior and king who died gazing the reflection of the burning ruins of lands through the reflection of it's waters. Now it seemed the increasingly harrowing tales of the pool would grow. Though there would be no romance tint to the new songs it seemed, where once the waters where a clean, translucent blue one could stare at contemplatively and ponder at their leisure, now turned to a shade of brown and attracted pests from the dead bodies laying down at the bottom of the pool.

'At least they had stayed down' Kevan thought he gazed down. His men could at least be counted on to follow orders and do unpleasant tasks half heartily. No single bloated corpse had floated to the surface of the pool to attract ravens or other scavengers to pick at direct. This meant his men took the time to stack the bodies bodies four by four like he requested; tying them up with rope of hemp; or roll them together with straw, and then weigh each stack down with heavy stones. Bugs and flying insects were now drawn to the thick, soupy waters that now more closely resembled the brown pots served in Flea's Bottom at King's Landing then the blue tinted pristine waters of Maidenpool.

As he looked down from the high walls more and more as he moved throughout the walkway, it seemed the men down below just look like tiny ants from up here in tops of the sky, but moves around frantically like them as well. Men darted in between structures, either as if they hoped to reach there as quickly as their feet would allow them or that they where scurrying away from someone or something as fast as they could. Something that didn't sit with Kevan well as soon as he noticed it. Soldiers were orderly by both need and nature. While there were definitely civilians about even now in Maidenpool even now, most of were holed up inside their homes or a sept for protection. Smallfolk and traders wouldn't deal with possibly being harassed by guards or mayhaps even being thrown into the stockades or dungeon unless it was for something import. While the arcade and marketplace had been shutdown for a while now, the town center's merchants selling solely to his quartermasters and the like, food stalls where still open...on the other side of town and away from where he was looking. Those tiny figures below had to be either his men or someone else's.

Kevan had already begun bolting towards the nearest group of sentries, voice loud and blaring warning, when he heard the loud contentiousness note of a horn blare and hang into the air as easily as a cloud. His men didn't even wait to hear his orders and he didn't bother to continue them, they all knew their stations in a battle. The small duos or trios of men ran off and clumped together into columns of men darting around the walls now, like clay on statue. Kevan moved past them and to where he needed to go. There is a tool for every task, and a task for every tool as Tywin as apt to say. His task was elsewhere.

Kevan made it back through the curtain wall and into the castle proper at what even at a younger age most would consider breakneck speed. His back and legs had a dull but constant ache from the run, but it was vastly better than the eternal sleep that might await if he failed to back it back to his officers. Hell, it might already be too late this attack had come fast and they might not to have to even bother with a siege.

"Milord." A small man in gold and shiny crimson said as Kevan made into the man hallways of the castle's interior, bowing ever so slightly with twelve other, either somewhat or much taller men in almost the same exact armor, lacking only a tunic with the Lannister arms on it and a more ornate helmet.

"Sergeant. Follow me." Kevan said, perhaps needlessly, as the short Sergeants men had already flanked him from both sides and even formed a wall in front of him just has he finished addressing the Sergeant.

"Have you received word from the officers or lord here? Is it a siege or a raid? Is it Tully's men. Walder Rivers?" Kevan asked as they strolled the war room. If now one could make it there, he'd move closer to the castle gate and just begin his command there, he'd have to depart there shortly anyway. Battles were one in the board room to be sure, but they where fought on the fields and woe be to the fool who forgets that.

"No. It's the Band of the Hawk. They just hoisted their flags. They haven't set up any siege equipment but they're behind the wall and even in the castle now Ser." The Sergeant said, calmly in his guttural voice. A lower Lannisport accent if Kevan had ever heard one.

"The who?" Kevan asked, half to himself for answers. The name was vaguely familiar. The Riverlords had been using more than their own men to harass the Lannister van. Moreover when Tywin had been raising his host to meet Jamie's own to both crush Riverrun and then crush Rob Stark, he could have sworn there was in offer there for some mercenary company with a name like that. He could have sworn to the Seven themselves it was the Band of the Falcon though.

"Mercenaries from Andal country in Essos." The sergeant answered. "They pushed us out of Castle Darry and then scattered the Mountain's forces when he tried to seize it later. "

Ah yes that debacle. Though he wondered if they truly counted as a mercenary company anymore. Their leader, Griffith, was now lord of Darry from what Lord Vary's had relayed to them through the ravens. During Gregor Clegane's second attempt to siege the castle he make through into Castle's Darry's gates and slay the child lord who attempted to rally the defenders. Though that turned out to be a clever trap that just made his men arrow fodder until the Hawk's heavy foot smashed their rear and shattered Clegane's army. Very fortunate for Griffth, just how much was coincidence and how much was foresight left Kevan wondering.

They continued to march towards, as they did noise finally erupted throughout the castle, though especially so in the direction they where heading. Loud low and high pitches screams of pain, preceded by heavy meaty thuds or the soft whish of liquid. The clangs and screeches of steel upon steel rang throughout the hallways, the scratches and slashes of blade and armor, bending and ripping each other sending shivers of pain in his own ears. The song of pain and misery of war was at full crescendo now.

"Forget the war room, the time for that has passed, it's too late for talk the fighting has begun." Kevan said, turning and his routine walking completely lockstep with him as they headed towards the stairs and another source of the sounds of battle. He could hear their metal gauntlets flexing and grip their weapons tightly as they did so, the clangs almost comforting to him. 'The men's weapons where already ready,' Kevan noted, 'but now they where as well.'

The sounds sure enough grew louder, though Kevan knew they would have been nearly as bad or even worse had they continued to the war room. The enemy would send men their in the hopes of catching officers or possibly just slaying them. Heading towards the gate was just a question of how quickly and efficiently they were infiltrated at this point, as it was becoming increasingly obvious this was no mere raid or a charge preceding or part of a larger siege attempt. There was more than a handful of saboteurs or spies, the defenses had been utterly penetrated and now the Band of the Hawk had moved onto to seizing objectives and assets of Maidenpool.

Outside of a wall, Kevan's men were worth more ten times there number, his seven hundred and fifty foot enough to hold out and grieve force of ten thousand men. Now that was worthless and he'd it would be very bloody and costly to repel them until he could slip away with what resources and men he could. Damn it all, he should have been back to Harrenhal a week ago.

Right before the foyer that would have lead his men and him to the staircase and a chance to reign in the chaos, they approached four men in dark armor in the midst of a bloody hallway. Beneath and to the side of them lay men, sliced or bashed into pieces. The walls themselves almost seemed caked in gore and viscera seemed purposeful, the lines of blood and stripped flesh extremely symmetrical to where it landed. It was more like a mad detector had taken upon himself to brighten up the room and they had just walked upon he and his men in the middle of their work.

Kevan could recognize one of them, if not from his face but the arms on tunic of his armor. The trout jumping from the waves into the air, but instead of the Tully silver it was a streak of dark black. Brynden Tully, Brynden Blackfish. His hair was all an iron gray, from scalp to mane and his whiskers, instead of the fiery hair of his younger days, from which Kevan recognized him, but the worn leather boot the man had for a face was still there and hadn't changed. Two others seemed to only grunts, and from the marks on the others heavy steel plate, mercenaries of the Hawk. The simple blue hawk on white more than enough to tip him off. The last one of the mercenaries stood apart however and not by his height and powerful build. Sure there were few tall as the man, who stood well over six feet but so what? Sandor would tower him, let alone the man's brother, and if he had time and inclination he could find a handful how matched him in height. Mayhaps it was because he was comely, his features masculine, not only strong but proud. His cheek bones and chin somewhat prominent and you glad they where. Or maybe it was because the man was blood crazed enough to not wear a helmet and let his face be free to be seen or struck unprotected in battle. That and his large greatsword that seemed more suited to the Mountian then even a man of his height

Even his eyes looked crazy, wide and gladly drinking in what was in front of him,

"Ser Brynden, well played. I would have guessed your hand in this if I had the time to think it through. Though you managed to wander a bit much ahead. Yield and drop your weapons please, we can all walk out of this away." Kevan said, firm and easily holding down the fear in his belly. He easily had the advantage here.

"I'm afraid those were the terms I was going to offer you Ser Kevan." Blackfish said with a smile. "I'm guessing you can use those eyes and ears planted on your head. What you can't see or hear is even worse. The day is won for us and lost for you. Taking me prisoner exactly is going to be impossible and lopsided. Don't waste your men's lives, Ser Guts could cut them down while taking a piss with one hand and in a heartbeat to boot. With me, the Stranger will take them before their bodies could hit the floor. Yield." The Blackfish said with a smile that now matched his friend.

"Guts? Odd name. You foreigners are an odd bunch" Kevan asked gazing over the barefaced man with the giant blade. Didn't take a genius to figure out who he was referring to. "Forgive me but I'm not familiar you 'Ser'. Seems like an idle threat to make sure you don't spend the rest of the war in a dungeon."

His men all now formed a three pronged wave in front of him, in each lined by shoulder to shoulder four by four, completely separating and protecting Kevan with the four armed intruders. Guts just smiled wickedly, his teeth looking like the fangs of a wolf or attack hound thanks to the position of his blade and gums. The sinking feeling in his stomach rose to his throat despite every reassurance of his brain telling him otherwise. Deep down now Kevan thought them as much protect from the man as his cape if he decided to drape it out in front his outstretched arms. Maybe it was just him knowing the probable result of the battle surrounding him or the man's supreme self confidence but Guts clearly thought they where nothing going by the look of the man's eyes.

"I'm warning you, once I start swinging I can't guarantee his life. I never received a lot of lessons in sparring an enemy or learning to hold back." Guts said, his deep growl lingering in the air.

"I prefer him alive but that's the battlefield for you." The Blackfish said. "Surrender now fool. You'll be treated well and you won't make those men's wives widowers. Don't throw away your life because you fear shame and a cell with three hot square meals a day."

Kevan brought up his hand quickly, pointing at the four quickly unleashing hell in this little corner of Maidenpool. His men rushed forward, but in the unison of one whole body. Eight spears found themselves in front of the unit of men, each man knowing where he belong and where the men in front and back of him where, allowing four men to wave their weapons and fight in conjunction with the men in front of them. In return Guts alone pounced forward, winding up his blade in back of him reading for a clawed swipe towards the line of men.

'Madness' Kevan thought. Guts could have used the confined hallways to his advantage, have all four of them line up and make the Lannister men fight them all one at time, prevent the most advantageous aspects of the numbers game to take effect. Now only did he leave himself to be attacked at multiple angles simultaneously by more than four men at once. Gut's giant sword possible blows were itself now limited by the constraints of the castle's narrow corridors. The work of a suicidal or overconfident lunatic, not a skilled knight or swordsman.

And then the a storm of red rain and thunder from steel started in the hallway. A glop of flesh and gore from one of his own men flew into Kevan's face blinding him for three seconds that each felt like a lifetime. Kevan knew though just from that blur of motion that at least three of his men were already dead, carved easily in half like they were made of paper not even straw. They all had worn at least ring mail, one had worn half plate. Two more where wounded, one in the back row blinded from a slash from both eyes and another missing a nose and most of his upper teeth on the bottom. From what he guessed at least six of those spears had been sundered as well, either the tips breaking off or down to the shaft.

Before he could finish wiping his eyes, Kevan heard his men rush forward both valiantly and utterly foolishly. Kevan heard a few clangs of steel, a few more loud thuds, and then brief but terrible screams of agony. He heard the short, scared sergeant bark a few orders nervously and his own men vainly attempt to shuffle themselves to meet it and other round of the song of steel followed by another chorus of death.

By the time he had opened his eyes, he say only three of his men still standing, only two of them unwounded. On the floor, missing half his head split almost evenly don the middle, lay the sergeant the remainder of his head looking it was in the middle of screaming another command. The others were in a similar shape, not merely corpses merely soaked with blood and with holes in them but missing enough limbs or large sections if their body…if they weren't cut in two. While Guts himself was drenched in the other men's blood, his smile wide, fangs now bared completely.

He was still right, he was no master swordsman or legendary knight in the making, the man was the Stranger in the flesh. A great beast in the far north, past the wall and out of a wet nurse's ridiculous yarns and fables.

"Stop." Kevan tried to say, "Flee now while you still have a chance."

Maybe they tried too, it looked like they had at the least. They shuffled back a tiny bit, all three where still in formation, blocking off Guts from the rest of the hallway and him with their shields lined up perfectly with each other and stuck out perfectly, spears ready to take advantage of a charge. Guts did not give them time enough for Kevan to figure that out however.

Guts didn't even bother to move at first. Somehow he used the size of the sword and tiny hallways to his advantage, striking the side of castle wall and knocking off a loose slab of stone clean off and right into the center guard's head, crushing the helm, given the dent Kevan could see, and the man's skull give the sounds Kevan heard. As the man fell down hard on his companion to the right, Guts raced to that side, vaulting on the side of that wall to get into perfect position to strike both remaining guards low and aiming to their sides away from the protection of the shield.

The moans of dying metal pounded into Kevan's ears, a rush of fiery pain spreading quickly to the center of his skull driving him to his knees as his men's bodies flopped to the floor, the crashes of their heavy armor not even registering with him. He even felt an icy heat sweep down from the top of head. Odd.

Both Guts and Brynden Tully quickly ran towards him. The good, sardonic humor off of the Tully's face and regret completely replacing glee off Guts. But why, they had won completely. The icy ache spread further and it started to feel wet, as if winter snow had just begun right over him. Kevan reached up with his fingers feeling only wetness, as Guts babbled something as concern continued to show itself on his face. He brought down his fingers and then quickly saw way. Red.

Even his knees seemed to be giving out now, but before he could fall Guts was there kneeling and hoisting him up easily and gently with only most of the fingers of one hand, as if he were merely a sick puppy. As darkness came down on him and his vision failed him, he took what might perhaps be his last look period at Guts, only his face and his black armor now visible.

More than regret over a mistake or an incomplete success in a mission, it looked like the foreign knight was sad over his injury and he suddenly feared might be his death. 'He looks like he might cry over failing to take me alive, but seemed so joyous when he was fighting and killing my men. How odd' Kevan thought, before his vision completely faded and the black finally overtook him.


	2. Guts I

**Guts**

It had been just a week since the Band of the Hawk's Raiders and Brynden the Blackfish's knights took Castle Soapstone of Maidenpool and he was already getting restless. Luckily Gaston and Ser Brynden were handling the organization and accounting of the weapons, gold, and food in the armory and treasury. Guts was more than willing to admit that wasn't his area of expertise, but even training and managing the levied foot who would hold Soapstone still lost his interest pretty quickly. Outside of a handful of basic routines and demonstrations for three hundred men, most of did was check in on officers and make sure they were as competent as he knew they were and that the new recruits learned to strictly adhere to their schedules and order at all times.

Guts longed for battle or at the very least getting back to Riverrun to meet back up with his comrades. The Blackfish was good company and always seemed to find a way to pull out a nugget of wise advice or story out of his pocket whenever it was needed or things got seemed to get to quiet or boring, and Gaston as always could hold his liquor and own stories of back home made Guts himself somehow feel nostalgic and homesick but Guts longed to be back with everyone or at least had something to do other than teach a farmer what side of his spear to hold up. Pippin was a quiet man but it was always comforting to have him nearby, Rickett might be the most trustworthy and handy person he knew period despite how young he was, and Judeau was a man with an easy smile, a thousand clever tricks or jokes, and every man's friend. Hell Guts would have taken either Corkus or Casca as company, even they always seemed to treat him like a dog who always made a mess inside.

But he was leaving today with Brynden in any case so he had even less reason to complain about having a slow week. Gaston and Brynden's second in command would be left behind to continue training and managing the men until Lord Mooton was settled back in. More importantly, as per both Griffith's and the Brynden's orders, the men were being instructed in order to ignore Mooton's command and how to stage a mutiny if the coward surrendered again without a fight as he had just a month prior. Odds were Tywin or the Mountain wouldn't lay siege to the castle again, at least anytime soon as Tywin was preoccupied battling the Starks and the Mountain's forces were too small to siege castles anymore and was mostly raiding, but preparation for any eventuality was usually the actually deciding factor in a battle or war.

Guts was nothing more than an up jumped grunt and even he knew that. Even now out of his armor, he had two long knifes tucked away in his belt, a dagger hidden in his boot, a crossbow along with seven bolts, and of course his two handed greatsword that was almost half a foot longer than most two handed blades of the identical class. He even had trouble sleeping without a sword by his side since he was nine and found it utterly impossible to do so without at a dagger near by at least. The world was a dangerous enough place on it's own, during a war it far more dangerous than the singers would imagine haunted woods filled with giants, wyverns, trolls, grumpkins, and snarks would be in their songs.

As unprofessional of as it was for him, he was slacking off in his duties and laying on the very edge of the battlements using whetstone to sharpen and clean his sword, supporting his back on one of the white clear stone crenellations, sticking from the top of the wall and around the castle like a crown, and his feet resting on the next one over. The Soapstone was no Riverrun, and there wasn't enough room for him to completely spread out, forcing him to lay down at angle, leaving his legs way above his head, which practically touched the bottom of the wall. At night had enjoyed the cool breeze and looking up at the stars from up here, often falling asleep on the milky, smoothed but rocky floors and not his soft bed, feathered and with the quality silks reserved normally for high born guests and remembers of the household. There were no stars now twinkling in the sky in the mourning but the breeze felt fine as ever on his skin. Still his eyes and ears were poised and heard the familiar heavy beat of Gaston's steel boots hitting the floor towards him before Gaston would be able to hear Guts hymning to himself as he finished polishing his blade.

Gaston walked over to him, his boots too heavy for the casual demeanor he tried to present, with two articles of clothing in his hand, each a fine tunic more suited for nobility than anyone like them. "Hey Ser Guts, what are you doing here? Ronald had check the clerk's inspection of the armory himself and Brynden is looking all over for you. Remember you're supposed to meet up with Robb Stark and Griffith at Riverrun?"

Guts hopped up and towards Gaston, singing his sword around his back and grabbing each set of clothes with each of his hands. "Just got tired of breathing in dusty air of the dungeons and libraries. What the hell are these?" Guts asked, pulling each one up to closer to his face to inspect. "This one hear on the left fits in, really nice silk. The deep blue is nice on the eyes but this one looks like you carried it with you from all the way out of Midland. It doesn't matter how nice the linen is, it's sticking out of the collars and sleeves isn't in vogue here from what I can tell. Did you find this in Lord Mooton's quarters? Tully will give you hell..."

Gaston just shook his head and laughed, a little sheepishly. "Nah I made both actually."

"Really? Both look great! I thought this was just some over priced outfit they got from a snobbish flop in Essos or King's Landing….but that's just because of how fancy it looks." Guts said whistling. "You're pretty damn good with both a lance and needle."

"Thanks...actually that was why I signed up with the Band of the Hawk. I was apprentice tailor in Vritannis back before I signed up with Griffith." Gaston said

"What made you give it up and become a sellsword?" Guts asked, a good natured grin spreading across his face. He had known Gaston for the better part of three years and still didn't that about him, though he had long hazarded a guess his second in command was not a career solider type.

"Because I didn't want to be an apprentice or even a journeyman tailor, I wanted to own my practice or even shop in the city. Mayhaps even have nobility or even merchant princes like the Free Cities be my private clientele. My boss though was going to leave the business to his daughter and her husband, and it was a small shop and that girl was a miser, always pinching pennies. While the old man would have kept me on until I finished learning my trade at the very least, she was going to kick me out the door he retired. Knew which way the wind was blowing and I decided not to fight it, a week after I found out the old man's plans I wished him well, then looked for a line of work I could make a lot of coin in fast as possible and signed on with the Band of the Hawk. Man it's funny, Griffith didn't pay well at all in the beginning and told possible recruit he could off of his literal soapbox that if we signed up it was going to be for bloody battles and the long haul, his whole pitch was something I told myself I'd avoid at all costs, but ten minutes after hearing him speak I signed my name to his register soon as I could."

"I think I'm the only one whose arm Griffith had to twist to join up."

Gaston erupted into a fit of laughter so bad he couldn't breathe, his knees buckling and causing him drop to the floor. His face even swelled a bit and went purple as a grape, before he finally got had control of himself. Gaston had to almost beat him off to stop Guts from hoisting him up from his back and squeezing him he was so concerned. All the while Gaston seemed bemused, chuckling even as he rose and wiping a tear from his eye as he did so. Guts himself only cocked a grin at the very end of his fit, only prompting Gaston to erupt in a fresh but less passionate burst of giggles.

How soon had it taken for him to take his future best friend ambushing him and beating him into submission in total stride? Hell, if he was going to be honest, Guts looked back on the day Griffith broke his arm in two with a deep sense of nostalgia and whimsy now. He had murdered and betrayed men for far less previously, Guts remembered all too well. He had once broken a man's jaw for simply patting him on the shoulder, a couple months prior to meeting Griffith. 'I want you,' Griffith told h him simply, innocently and naively enough that Guts at the time was more than sure the only place Griffith had really wanted him was the bedroom. Honestly everything about Griffith should have resulted in Guts hating the man to his core and to either or both of their deaths, Guts being the most likely one in to wind up in a grave. Now Griffith was his best friend, if not his brother. His brilliance in both battle and off it, and his noble yet down to earth demeanor drew Guts like the rest of the two and half thousand men he had brought in. A torch in the darkness of the world, both leading and warming them together with his brilliant light and his fiery ambition.

Gaston eventually recovered from his second round of laughter and looked up at Guts seriously as he grabbing both, his smile changing into that of an innkeeper or smith in the middle of a business proposition, sincere but with a very self centered purpose. "I can understand your worries about a Midlands or a general Mur subcontinent look….but I think it highlighting your... _foreignness_. _.._ might actually favor you. Everyone knows you're an adventurer mercenary, but you bring with you our dignity, our honor, hell our majesty. You'd look like an exotic savior not a sellsword barbarian. Not to exotic though."

"Yeah I just noticed the detail of the trousers looks more like a tunic," Guts said. "There still is a jacket and the silks are going to make me look puffed up."

"Yes, perfect to accent you. To draw eyes on you like nobodies business. All eyes will be on you, seeing something in person most of them have never seen out of a book. The pants will make more palpable and relatable to Westerosi fashion norms."

"Uh-huh, I think that would better for someone like Griffith. I'm just a grunt and I totally look the part of thug or barbarian."

"Don't say that _Ser_ Guts. You're a high ranking officer of the Raiders and a Westerosi landed knight of the Riverlands to boot. You're going to be excepted at these function almost as much as Commander Griffith now. People like Lord Jason Mallister or Ser Marq Piper are going to think less of him unless you show up at these meetings and in style if possible. By God, Walder Frey openly hates Griffith and you with all the black bile he can muster. The last time Griffith rode to the Twins, Casca claims he was barely containing a fit and did nothing but spit venom and insults at the Commander. He wants nothing more than for Griffith to sit quietly at those war council meetings or even him kicked out of the Band all together. Lord Frey can't stand a foreign common born man like him raising so quickly."

"That's just his way. Edmure says the old man is just curmudgeonly old fart. He tried to marry off one of his daughters to Griffith and begged the us to take two of his grandsons as squires. If Frey really hated us, why we got saddled with Hoster Frey and Duncan Waters? That kid Duncan might not be to fight worth a shit but he's strong enough to carry my arms and quick enough about putting it on me. From what Griffith says, Hoster pretty bright and helpful even if he's spoiled and nasty to the core."

"Because Griffith is a lord of a large estate now and one of the principal bannermen of the Tullys; all the captains in the band and you are all knights now and are moving up in the world now. When the war's over it wouldn't surprise me in the slightest if you all ended up petty lords or more, especially with how far Griffith has come in such a short time. He'll probably end up with Harrenhal as his seat when we win this war for King Stark...or you know." Gaston said, suddenly calming himself down and coming to a stop and letting the sentence trail off and Guts finish it himself. Griffith wanted to be more than a lord, even a lord with such a rich and power a seat then Darry or even Harrenhal would grant him. Everyone in the Band knew this to some degree, from the high ranking officers who were told it in person by the man or from it trinkeling down the rank and file. But than again Griffith wasn't the type of man to truly stab Robb Stark in the back or harm the child king unprovoked even. "In any case Walder Frey isn't idiotic or that hidebound. It's cold as hell in White Harbor and a lot of sailors don't like the waters there, but there's money in it. He hopes he fails, but will ride the waves if he succeeds."

"Well in any case if you want to be sure when in court, just wear the second suit I gave you. A long of simple bold colors but if you notice some gold patterns hidden in there. It fits the sequence and…," Gaston continued trying to take away the previous outfit, only for Guts to pull it above his head and out of Gaston's reach, while giving him an amused smile.

"Now it's alright I trust you and it sounds like they love it. Hell I love it and even if they don't, you're still right for making this." Guts said, helping Gatson with the other outfit and draping the one more fitting his home country over his back, walking past his second in command and offering raising in his arm as a good bye after he had almost completely exited the parapets and entered the dark, shadowy innards of the walls.

As Guts made it out down onto the actual grounds and outside of Soapstone white stone interiors, he noted just how much of the battlefields he had fought on had begun to overlap and mingle together in a great gray fog in his memory. Outside of the glamour and artistry of it's exterior it didn't much stand out in his mind and even then not so much, at the end of the day it there were dozens if not castles whose shell was designed to be aesthetically pleasing, Soapstone was still a primarily a military fortification and when you walked through it's skeleton, any veteran would be able to tell it just from it's layout and feel.

No, it was what was happening outside in the courtyard that interested him now. When the Raiders and the Blackfish's knights had found Maidenpool proper, it had the streets had been totally empty. When you walked down the streets one could hear whispers and shuffling from inside some of the huts buried, or warehouses, or even the local sept but when you walked in them more times than not you'd see nothing and no one. Some of Brynden's men had confided in Guts that it felt as if they infiltrated Harrenhal and were hearing the moans of the haunted castle's ghosts from it's thick scorched black stone walls. Ghosts themselves were nonsense, even in the Seven Kingdoms' most famous haunted castle, they all had to know they had been holed up in their cellars, hole's in the ground, and attics. But now, while it wasn't full, the town wasn't just occupied with soldiers and the smiths, healers, and camp followers who shadowed them. Merchants, vendors, beggars, farmers, masons, and even mother's with their babes now continued their business. 'Such was the reputation of the Band of the Hawk,' Guts thought 'even civilians surviving a battlefield could open their hearts and trust us.'

In the field new pavilions and tents bearing the sigils and arms of the winged white sword of the Band of the Hawk, the leaping silver and black fish of House Tully and Bryden's personal coat of arms, the twin keeps of Frey's, the dead weirwood tree surrounded by of a murder of crows of the Blackwood, and a couple more here and there of large and small noble houses Guts had yet to remember despite all of Griffith's, Casca's, and now Brynden's help. By them soldiers polished their armor and weapons, sat near one another on the ground gambling with one another with dice and card, some sat on chests or rolled up bedmats and finally having breakfast, and others formed lines to the three standing black table wear the banner of Band of the Hawk hung above them where three scarred older veterans dispensed their pay and took log of their loot they had taken in the sack of the castle.

The camp followers and the support staff themselves were busy with their own work. Guts saw a half dozen women ranging from fourteen to fifty washing with wet soapy rags and then beating dirty rugs, clothes covered in night soil, and dark stained bedmats with stiff, hard wooden paddles. Others washed pots and pans or worked red, meaty bubbling stews and creamy soups filled with hardy vegetables like skinned potatoes, squashes, turnips, and carrots. A septon from Pinkmaiden and a priest the Band had picked up from Midlands both administered new bandages, hopeful happy prayers, and salves for the injured and solemn prayers and last rites for those who lay dying in their tents. Smiths brought their work from the interior of the castle and from their tents, displaying it on racks for the quartermasters to examine and pick up, or bring out repaired old weapons and armors for them to gather. Two of three apprentice were barked orders by sergeants and ran across the grounds and through the narrow passages in between tents to gather discarded heavy used or outright damaged weapons to bring back to their masters or the journeymen black smiths to work in their fires.

All the while, ordinary smallfolk were about their business or even engaging with the soldiers. A group of small children played knights and wildlings with sticks and wooden swords, an older one of Gut's Raiders, a married man whose own boys were now holed up in Riverrun, joining them and now faking his death after a squat little blonde boy slapped him softly in the back with a freshly ripped off branch. Two women in their early twenties or very late teens teased a young Blackwood knight, who grinned nervously and seemed to be working up a nice sweat. Vendors hawked fresh tomatoes they had stashed and loaves of bread to fellow citizens of Maidenpool or the occupying members of the army who strolled near their line of vision. All the while many of Tully's men gawked at this, shocked at the reaction the peasants had to occupying and mostly foreign force.

A group of women had gathered around Guts, as he made it to the middle of the courtyard, serenading him with love songs, praise and offering flirtation ranging from the innocuous to the downright raunchy. The comments on his strong jaw, high cheekbones, and large manly muscles had always been tiresome and outright uncomfortable to him but now they were tiresome as well. Guts had if the lowborn ladies were interested in his look or his newly granted knighthood but he had very little interest in bedroom actives with any sex, his previous experience nasty enough for him. After a few polite nods and noncommittal courtesies to the ladies, he switched to grunts and snarls when they didn't take the hint and part from his way.

A few of them got the message, but that only led to a more diverse group of smallfolk, singers, and merchants crowding around him as they dispersed. His private space and even his arm, was filled with flailing limbs and touchy hands waving and panting at him. Ever since that whole the Mountain Who Rides incident he noticed everywhere he went one wanted to see and touch the hero of their gossip and recent songs. Maybe that explained the women too, who wouldn't want to sleep a hero? What a song to tell the other girls, what a son or daughter to have, who blood was coursing with that of a hero. He didn't even really fight the man though, just shot him with a crossbow with four other men and drove him out of Castle Darry with his tail between his tree sized legs. In either case he could barely breathe, let alone wiggle around with those hands groping and wrangling around him, an avalanche of human flesh smothering his entire body.

Guts fist was readying to strike out, ding someone in the jaw and scare the away the mob, but a thick hoarse voice interrupted with a loud, but brief curt cough and they scurried out demurely before he had to knock someone out their ass, like a flock of pigeons. Guts looked at the dignified figure and offered another smile to a friend. He had known Brynden Tully only a couple of months but the man was the mentor figure he wanted most his life and had grown skeptical could ever exist for a man like him after the parade of men who took him in and he often had to kill to escape whatever torments or deadly trials they had stuck him in.

Tully know wore a dark gray doublet and mail gusset and breeches, wearing both the arms of House Tully and his own coat of arms. Despite being well into his fifties, he cut an intimating figure even without the armor and with it looked like he was naturally woven into it as one of many rings of mail or threads of fine fabric. His wide shoulders supported and the metal shield and long sword as easily as an an oversized sheathe His face was like lined and hard but in the way that a fine quality boot that only a lord or merchant lord could afford was. At any moment his leather face could easily crack into a warm smile that perfectly matched his smokey voice. To his men and his friends, it was the look of a favored uncle or grandfather. The snow on his mountain reddish brown hair and beard only fit perfectly with that and his rugged face. The very image of a knight, looking like more a statue that was to be stashed somewhere than right in front of him.

He looked like he was about to reprimand Guts but the way those little white rugs he called eyebrows hung above his eyes and the faint smile he had painted across his face ruined that impression quickly. "I had thought you'd remember to check on in me for my briefs before we road off to Riverrun. Does Lord Griffith like his briefing meetings filled with empty pauses and muffled barks of confusion? We most not let the Lannister's discover our secret or they'll fill their upper ranks with scatter brains and muscle heads and the war will be lost."

"Sorry about that but how are they going to be any different than yesterday's? Did Kevan die yet?" Guts asked half embarrassed and half in sarcastically.

The Blackfish snorted contemptuously. "Not yet, it's till touch or go but the Maester Gillen says his fever is starting to cool and with him lasting so long after that cut to the forehead that the odds slightly favor him living now. Though it's still a coin toss to him whether or not Ser Kevan will be feeble minded if he wakes. From there a roll of the die on how bad he'd be touched in the head if he'd be if he was. Will be be a mute, drooling on himself or will Kevan have a stutter. Will he walk around with a limp and so on, though as long he could hold a quill to paper and understand what's going on, I be more than willing than not to believe he'd still be a valuable hostage."

"Sorry, I don't know that." Guts said.

"That's why these briefings are so important. More importantly while King Robb marches back to Riverrun and prepares to connive his war council, he'll be mulling over Ser Marq Piper and Greatjon's proposal to storm Harrenhal and Lord Bolton's and Theon Greyjoy's plan to burn Lannisport and move onto to raze the entire Westerlands. Our young king has already decided waiting in the Riverlands waiting for Tywin to make his move and chasing after his raiders isn't getting us anywhere."

"Well I'm all for that and Greatjon's plan of attack. The Band of the Hawk has faced familiar odds and sieges before. We've come out on top. I know you think we strike west but I think all of us agree it's for the best to attack sooner rather later."

"Aye but for a different reason than you summer children do. I want our stratagems as well planned and prepared as possible while leaving as little time as possible for Tywin do so. I want that old lion to be on his feet and scrambled not poised and ready. If we let Tywin set the beat of this song and it's just going to be to the tune of The Rains of Castamere. You boys want to do so because lack patience." Brynden said, acid briefly at his nonchalance in his voice before going to more monotone as he went on the facts as he saw them, though he still found time to wag his finger at Guts. "Besides your castles on the Mura subcontinent or just Essos in general are just toy models compared to the burned carcass of Harrenhal. That includes Castle Doldery. Striking into the Westerlands and forcing Tywin out of the walls, least his armies starve, find himself broke, and have his smallfolk rebel against his lords rule is just how I want to fight him or anyone. Fear and desperation are powerful tools in war."

"Alright, alright." Guts said, though with a smile that Brynden quickly returned.

Brynden had already had his and Gut's routine horses mostly packed, leaving Guts the strangler of group. A light punishment, this embarrassment having these knights and his men, some of them younger than his eighteen years, visibly and obviously hold them up. But effective, as long as he rode with Blackfish he wouldn't took a breather to enjoy the weather when there things to do no matter how minor. They all watched as he fastened his gear, tent and bedding, and food easily on his plain brown destrier. Though no doubt they had seen how efficiently and quickly he done so in the process of this punishment, requiring no squires like the highborn or even servants to wrap up the food or fold the bed mat like his own men did. He rode much of Essos alone selling his services to new masters and he had to be there right before the fighting had started or just begun since he was ten years old, doing this alone was the one of the first skills had he mastered. A very light embarrassment indeed.

They rode out together after that, a decent sized group of eighteen men including Tully and himself. In those numbers and with fine steel the bandits and brigands that had infested the countryside and charred remains of towns would be serve as a powerful warning. Still if they ambushed them or rode down on them many of these men where pick of the litter when it came to battle or swift enough with the horse to outrun them easily. If they had ever gotten the chance to catch them unawares at all, all of the knights here, outside of Guts, knew the land by the back of their hands and made great scouts even outside of their homelands so strong with eye and how cleverly observant and knowledgeable they where with any type of terrain.

Feeling secure he had time to take his surroundings in more than an intellectual manner. The tonal shifts startled him and had feeling more than a little tense inside, a feeling he welcome as an old friend inside him as it was almost always helpful. All the of the lands where picturesque in one manner or another. Rivers or streams that were a clear almost completely translucent white or a light but bright blue as the sky; some of them wide as war elephants, others fat that twenty men could ride on horse back could ride side by side, while others ran across slightly more than his foot. In the forests, or even the plains, fudge brown bark trees and vibrant life filled green leaves glowed with thanks to the sun, while others where gnarled, scraggy old men stretching, revealing that under the brown they were nothing but soon to be dead skeletons. Leafless little things in the middle of barren earth, reminders that summer was at an end and that the years of autumn would be settling throughout the Westeros.

Though what had been the bastions of civilizations was almost entirely grim. While there had been small hold fasts and farms during the trip that had looked entirely untouched, Guts had seen no one alive there. Lifeless landscape paintings but out of a manor or castle and sprung into the real world. It was in the burned husks of villages and shattered town that looked like a windstorm had blown them down he saw life. A mother breastfeeding a long dead baby, a child poking at a long dead adult, crying and whining to them about their hunger or demands that they finally wake up. Lines of refugees either begged tried to run up to them as they galloped past demanding or begging for food, while others lined up to their usually untouched septs, as women and men in all white gown handed out old half loaves of bread to each person if they were particularly fortunate.

It seemed these sights where getting to even the Blackfish who decided to pull his horse alongside Guts. "It's about you decide on a sigil boy. Guts of Midland might work for hedge knights but you have lands now and Edmure is set on you getting a last name as well you can pass down with it," Tully said, gazing more at Guts than at the trail ahead of them

"I think the winged sword is good enough for me. I want people to know where I come from and give it respect. My victories are Griffith's and my comrades'." Guts said, mostly continuing to stare ahead at the upcoming desolation.

"Yes, you're quite right. All the more reason to show them what you personally stand for and what you bring with you. You're not just Griffith's sword anymore. You'll raise men for him and collect his taxes, along with your own incomes. A reminder of how just powerful you are is a further hint of just how high your commander and your sellsword company has risen and that they are not to be trifled with," Brynden said almost gravely. "I know I'm not one to talk about this, but Griffith will be setting you up with a highborn wife before this is all over, it'd be best to impress her too so she doesn't write her father too many letters complaining of being stuck you."

"Let's stop here, the sun is setting and I'll not have us riding about in the night like a pack of thieves. Could get ourselves killed by our own friends." Brynden shouted aloud, all of them slowing down as soon as he made his command.

Guts had started to notice that it had been. The sky above them was now a blood red, darkness creeping in on the edges of it hoping to blot out that as well. They quickly dismounted and got about to setting camp below a woody hill and among the browning, dying leaves and bone gray ash covering the dirt. Squires and the more junior raiders gathered fire good, set up the tents, and took care of the horses while the knights and senior members hurdled drawing lots and having arguments over how guard duty shifts would be arranged and pulled out rations they would be eating tonight. The dried jerky would be tolerable and bread but somehow the mead would good going by experience with this host.

Guts went of by himself and found a nice spot of shade and warmth under a dead large dead tree that seemed to loom over everything. Two giant rotting hands sticking out of the dirt, it's bent and splintered fingers all dropped and shriveled down, but where nice enough to block what was left of the sun. Guts, took a long, deliberate brush along the tree with his left hand dropped his bedding on it with his right. The tree was decaying and it's bark was no longer hard enough to shave into his back of flesh, especially with the feathered mat, but was now just firm enough to provide shape and hold the bedding up into position. He would barely even feel the wood he bet. It was creepy looking, but as long as Guts had been wandering he had learned what sights the wild deceived you about at this point in his life and tricks on how that would work for you. Yes, he would have considered himself both lucky and clever, beating out this stuffed up nobles if he hadn't looked up and seen the three people hanging from the tree right above him.

He had just stared up into the sky looking up at them curiously when Brynden Tully once again found himself at Guts side, placing a friendly hand on his shoulder. It didn't bother him at all and felt as natural as when any of the Band had done the same. Still his eyes where stuck on the bodies above.

"Come on boy. Join the rest of us by the campfire, this is no place to sleep no matter how comfy or how much you like your privacy. You can even share my squire's and my tent. Won't have to share one with that Frey boy." Brynden said. "Shame for these poor folks."

"Who do you think did it? The Lannisters, our men or some other Riverland lordling, or bandits." Guts asked calmly.

"Not much of mystery, I ordered it myself a week ago. Poachers, stealing good meat that belonged to the army." Brynden said, with only a hint of remorse and a lot of true iron conviction deep down. "Not all criminals are scum and sometimes the carrying out the sentence might not be right but just needed. We just couldn't have smallfolk stealing what we need during war times. Normally I'd take a hand and if they were starving like these folks were just place them in the stockades for an afternoon but being a soft touch to empty bellies now could lead to riots and a loss of much more life in the long term."

"I understand and I think I found my coat of arms and motto now. A tree with a hanged man and a babe at the bottom, reading 'We Shall Struggle' I think," Guts said quietly

"I didn't think this would make such a big impact on you." The Blackfish said. "I'm sure you'd be used to these sights with all the war you've seen."

"Ser, I'm not just used to seeing this, I was born under a tree bearing fruit like this." Guts said. "And was I surrounded by swords and spears the moment every day and night after I was picked from it."


	3. Tyrion I

**Tyrion**

King's Landing had been weathering a storm of men for a matter of months now. From Dragon's Gate and Iron Gate, people from the Rosby and kingsroad to north flooded the base of Aegon's High Hill, drowning most of the granaries and storehouses of all their food and provisions, and practically clogging up Flea's Bottom to the very rim. From from the Rivergate, at the southern outskirts of the city and coming from the roseroad, refugees swept in; disease and crime on the very winds carrying them. Day and night Tyrion could hear the city crackle with the thunder of their cries for bread and justice; his dreams and thoughts haunted by the prospect of the lightening finally striking King's Landing ablaze; rioters knocking and breaking down walls and burning shops, while butchered the entire the royal families' and small council's and placed all their heads at the ends of pikes, though not before raping the women first.

'People might forget I'm a dwarf if my head wound up on a pike,' Tyrion though to himself as he took a long swig of a deep red wine from his cup. 'It only looks bloated and large because of my body after all.'

He had to admit as much as he didn't like Cersei, hated her in fact; the idea of her, Myrcella, and the Stark girl being brutalized while he and the rest of men where torn limb from limb wasn't appealing in the slightest. Even when he imagined he found a way to save himself or anyone else half way likable among the clods at court, it made his Dornish wine taste a little too sour in his mouth. As much as he hated his sister and the rest of them we was obliged to find them all a way alive out of the war his cruel, idiot nephew started when he cut off poor Ned Stark's head off at the steps of Great Sept of Baelor.

Tyrion turned from his weirwood chair and looked back out of the gold round tipped windows of the Tower of the Hand. Everything looked so small down there to him from up in the red stoned tower. It made him feel like a giant looking down his nose and the clouds when ever he did so, though he'd never admit as such to another human being willingly. Tyrion could guess what japes people would tell themselves if the Imp for a moment thought himself tall. Moreso it depressed him in other ways. As a mass of people massed and moved around the base Red Keep, the black shapes he saw reminded him more of ants than humans, tiny and weak to men like him who stepped all over them with their game of thrones. They were utterly insignificant even in regards to the destiny their own lives; the lords and ladies dictating them distant and utterly removed. 'Even if they weren't starving and dying they had every right to hate me and the rest of them.' Tyrion thought. 'We live in clouds and rule over them like the gods but don't even bother to lie about that afterlife reward for their service'

Thoughts like that made required two things: books or scrolls to block them out and more importantly wine to drown while their were shuffled off. As a Lannister he access to plenty of both, at one time he would have considered endless for all practical purposes, but now as Hand of the King he saw truly knew the breadth of things that money truly couldn't buy. Next to him, on his table made of a sweet bright yellow wood from the Summer Isles and with fine purple patterned silks from Shamyriana, was half empty bottle of a sour Dorinish red wine, a full and utterly fine old vintage bottle of Arbor Gold white wine dating back to King Jaehaery I's reign. He even had a few sweet Butterwell wines on the same table; if he somehow drank through all three on the table he could go over and get two other rare vintages from the large hazel brown cabinet at the corner of his study or just waltz over to the garderobe and grab a wine cask holding hailing from Yi Ti itself. Furthermore, Tyrion had all the paperwork he would ever need at his disposal by snapping his fingers and asking Payne to hand just hand him scroll after scroll. It wasn't even noon but he already had his fill of proposals and reports from court, petitioners, and spies on the street, settleing instead for more sour Dornish wine and a short history on the construction of the Red Keep.

Littlefinger had sent him four new taxes to be implemented that were designed to be extremely detailed and precise, while being vague and up to numerous interpretations. All the easier for the gold cloaks to demand or seize it, while leaving everyone from beggars to merchants to guildsmen flabbergasted and unable to contend in person, where they'd be beaten by the watchmen, or the courts where they would be laughed out, fined, or even thrown into the dungeons for wasting everyone's time. The various guilds throughout King's Landing had already offered counter proposals, of which there were seven. Most of it was jockeying and trying to shift the blame on competitors or those they believed weak or importantly in wartime, though some where fair enough that Littlefinger had already written freplies refuting them or even promising to reconsider. The Tailor's Guild believed the Dyemasters were both useless enough in the coming war and they themselves were so important for example, that only not only did the new taxes should be shouldered by them, but their previous taxes should be utterly frozen until the war was over. With all the backstabbing and betrayal among peers though none dared touch the Rat Catchers Guild; their small but vicious having been used to more than prevent hunting for plague rats or cleaning the sewers.

Of course Tyrion while he wanted nothing more than to be the done with the pests at court, he could be buried alive in books and tombs here, and die almost as happily as if he died buried in a beautiful woman's breasts. While there was no doubt Oldtown or even some of the Free Cities had larger collections of books, there was enough volumes of work here that Tyrion could spend the next ten years reading them cover to cover and only have worked his way through half of the books here. There had been numerous pogroms and purges of the written word and controversial knowledge here, but even after the likes of King Baelor and Maegor burned anything they thought could be used against the Seven or themselves (which was a whole to the two), a fifth of the library here was enough to make the study in Casterly Rock look like the a dung collector's hovel.

There was the collected remaining works of Septon Barth. Tyrion had noticed (and had his Payne set about coping to both bring back to send to the maesters of the Citadel and home to Casterly Rock) a couple of fragments of _**Dragons, Wyrms, and Wyverns: Their Unnatural History**_ , which he was completely certain the Citadel hadn't documented, let alone had in it's collection in just the Tower of the Hand's private library, and the long thought lost _**Higher Mysteries and Alchemy: A Guide to Both the Art and Lore of Magik**_. Tyrion hadn't completely lost his childhood fascination with dragons and the chance to actually read some of their obscure and downright esoteric lore from on them quickly from such a learned man quickly captured his attention, leading him to discard the normal caution and revere he had for rate books and even carry them into small council meetings to read between sessions or before the other members to arrive. Though Tyrion even from childhood had been utterly skeptical of witchcraft and magic, he had also found himself increasingly drawn to Barth's lesser known but much sought after treatise and documentation on alchemy, the supposed schools of magic, and occult lore.

Tyrion thought, and if he had to guess through the prose so did Barth to an extent, that the beliefs and systems of mysticism was all nonsense; the nonsense was still very compelling. There was a very fascinating and in depth look at the history and use of blood magic throughout Essos and the Further East, with Asshai given a large focused look and Valyria given only the broadest and a promise that a detailed account would be covered in _Dragons, Wyrms, and Wyverns_ and _**The History of the Valyria Freeholds: A Valiant yet Villainous Country.**_ His commitment to finding and proving facts, offering other well documented speculation for alternate and local assumptions of how the workings of magic functioned and was used, though he often disagreed and made that respectfully clear, was matched with his own theories which were often cynical and offered more rational explanations (though far from always, the book was full of what Tyrion could only regard as whimsy) which was filled with wit and deep insights that would often startle any reader.

He, and by extension of the quality his arguments so was Tyrion, was more forgiving and accepting of the schools of thought about alchemy and the bestiary of monsters and various other snarks. While there was a lot of preening and whining from the maesters, and plenty of genuine fraudulence and pure superstition, alchemy in particular methodology was sound and often produced results even if it went against the orthodoxy and philosophy of Citadel. Turning lead to gold was a jape or scam true, but the potions they brewed and other exercises of their craft often filled the gaps the maesters couldn't or downright did things they deemed impossible. Tyrion was panged with sadness as miracles Barth proved possible with the science were now lost and that even in Barth's time it had begun to disappear with the Fall of Valyria and the corruption and the splintering of the alchemists own guilds and colleges. Likewise the catalog of so called monsters was utterly blistering in it's condemnations of what Barth considered the close mindedness of the Citadel. Yes much of peasants, priests, and sailors talked about was fantasy and even drunkenness. But rarely was what they said outright lies; witness accounts truly did see something. Likewise their own explanations often weak and less 'rational' then the unwashed masses; often denying the existence of creatures who'd not only make sense in that environment but more importantly were similar to those alive on other parts of the world or well known to historical record. Hell now that Tyrion read some Barth offered, they often denied facts when faced with damaged ships or wounded and dead men bearing strange wounds and scars along with the mens' own statements.

Though what haunted Tyrions dreams and stray thoughts, even more than fine wine or rare books or even ravenous mobs out for blood, was the simple small illustration of a face like fetish. It was nothing special, Barth had been a talented artists along with a genius scholar, but had made hundred or so such portraits of monsters or items professed to possess mystic power, and Tyrion knew dozens of better artists on a personal basis. The explanation next to the egg shaped carving was likewise brief and unremarkable; it just noting it was a religious artifact found in the Andal hills said to allow select people to visit the Seven in person. Was it the facsimile of the eyes, one drifting from the nose to bottom side of what would be it's cheek? The mouth on the crown on the head? Why was it that he imagined it rearranging it's features to that of a man, crying and screaming like a madman. The Beherits seemed like they were such unimportant little things.

Tyrion had made it half way through the tenth page and all the way through his half cup of dark red wine before he hopped off his chair, deciding it was better to get a head start on whichever Kingsguard dupe Joffery or Cersei sent to help him inspect the walls yet again. Tyrion didn't bother to put back his chair or do more than close his book as he exited the rooms, just wanting to get his trip down the stairs over with already. All the more time to compose himself and put a careless and bored look on his face, now showing a single sign of weakness was key.

Sure enough the walk down the winding staircase was a quiet and subtle agony. It was a long spiraling staircase, high enough that it felt like one of those trick optical illusion woodcut pieces from Essos he had seen before, that appeared like it never ended. This one felt like it would never end either, which given the ache spreading throughout both of his thighs could go from unpleasant to downright dangerous. He could have went through the secret passage hidden behind one of his chamber's bookshelves but even if it was much shorter walk, it was not only less traveled but narrow enough that Tyrion felt like he was being squeezed when he walked through it. While all the walkways, hallways. and staircases were relatively narrow throughout the Tower of the Hand, none came close to those hidden of Mageor and his architects. Even in the staircase Tyrion was in, another man could have walked abreast with him, though not a man of normal stature. Ducking, walking sideways, and even crawling was necessary in long parts of the castle not listed in any official map. Here is Tyrion fell or had to stop, a wandering sentry would find and help in short order. There he could be trapped for days before Varys found him in the dark, dusty red halls. Maybe it would take even years; a new hand finding him only after he had been installed by either Stannis or possibly the Starks.

Luckily when he finally made it down the staircase right before his knees gave out, he found both Bronn, a couple of Gold Cloaks, and Captain of the Unbroken Shields Nicomo Cosca sitting at small table playing cards and gambling away all their silver. They all had been laughing, and in Cosca case drinking, and taunting another as they had done so. The watchmen hadn't noticed him as Tyrion stopped, but both Bronn, and Cosca had. Both looked him over quickly and realizing he was in pain, rather subtly approached him to help. Bronn approaching like an old friend, a hand clasped on his shoulder actually there to help hoist him up; Nicomo laughing and pretending he was cutting his loses and getting back to work as he gathered up their horses.

He would have thanked them, but he paid them more than enough to warrant such consideration.

Nicomo hoisted Tyrion up to his horse, a spotted brown mare. Far from a war horse, it was a perfect palfrey to make one look aristocratic, yet serious. With a dwarf on it, he had no doubt it looked silly but it was presentable enough most would hold their tongues. Cosca likewise road on an all silver palfrey, completely with a tabard with his personal coat of arms and that of the Unbroken Shields. He himself wore a fine yellow and red doublet mixed with fine dark chest plate armor, depicting himself fighting off a dragon and the like. He gave the appearance of being a handsome but roguish high lord or at the very least an ancient and wealthy family of knights. That he was as low born and more foreign than Bronn didn't really matter to anyone, especially Nicomo himself. Bronn himself had an all black, flea bitten destrier that was missing a chunk of of it's left earlobe. Like it's owner it wore mail and had an easy going but nasty look in it's eye. Both were unassuming and even mangy looking, but top of the line as it was.

All three of them got looks as they rode; Nicomo getting fluttered glances and happy cried from young and older women, rich nobles and serving girls, and young men lined next to desks in front of the Red Keep and the little guard outposts and barracks throughout the city; looking onto to sign onto the gold cloaks or selling fruits and vegetables from impromptu stalls lining the castle walls or near the keep to the passing city watch or courtiers. Tyrion and Bronn just getting apprehensive looks of either disgust or at best a very reproachful, fear breed respect.

Tyrion did notice just how little produce there was, how ripe or raggedy it was, and just how expensive it was. The actual nobility ignored the peddlers, but as Tyrion galloped through King's Landing he noticed that the gold cloaks, higher placed servants, and knights and lower ladies went straight up to them and handed over their money with barely a second thought. Sure there was some haggling involved and they had grimaces on their faces as they left, nursing their pockets and purses but they kept their mumbling and insults to themselves.

Bronn had been glancing over at the walls and the people by them himself and Tyrion felt his eyes on him now. "It's only to get worse. The city gets fish and even some other food by sea trade, but that's about it now."

Tyrion snorted. "Please I knew that before I ever set foot in the Crownlands. Renly his Tyrell toadies stymied all contact and trade from the Reach. Even if the Tullys hadn't thrown in with the Starks or bent the knee tomorrow the Riverlands were on fire. Sure we've been having food coming into King's Landing from either the sea; from the ocean or from the closest Free Cities: Tyrosh, Pentos, and Lys, or the surrounding countryside in the Crownlands but that will come to an end soon too. Some mercenaries called the Band of the Millennium Falcon or something and Tyroshi free riders have been harassing Dun Fort now for a couple of weeks now. Soon what little food it could produce would no longer be able to even reach my father in Harrenhal. Any day now Stannis ships will join his brother and the Tyrells in chocking us off completely and form a complete blockade out at sea. It isn't a matter of our stores of food running empty with too little to supplement it. It's a matter of no food coming in as more people do and the city starving even before the Starks or the Baratheons bother to start a proper siege".

"Well that's what you paid me for: taking care of rioters and lawlessness. I promise you on my honor, nay my life, that you and your family is safe from such lowborn treachery." Cosca jumped in merrily, blowing a kiss to a plumb cook her forties bringing up a large cauldron of stew up into a guard tower.

"Um, I seem to remember that you'd say your men would be here to defend against a siege. Or am I remembering that wrong?" Tyrion said, rubbing his chin. "Mayhaps I'll forget to have Littlefinger's men to bring your dragons from the treasury next with the way my mind is slipping these days. Or even to send a raven to father about the gold I owe you in particular."

"My Lord if I might be so bold to advise the Hand, you should carry around with you a ledger or notebook. I told you that as of right now what the royal treasury paying us right now is to police the city and what you are paying me and bribing my officers privately with is to bust the skulls of whoever you tell us to within the city. In the event an army comes upon us, you are to pay the Unbroken Shields double plus expenses, if you wish to pay us those rates ahead of time to spare yourself the paper work I completely understand and think I can get the men to agree to that. Even over in Essos and Styria we know your word is good as gold, and that your lot practically shits it." Cosca said laughing, Bronn soon joining him.

"The Thousand Swords were fools to ever let you go." Tyrion said, galloping up ahead of him and next to Bronn. "How did you ever find this man?" Tyrion said softly to him. "And am I the only one who has the feeling soon as the Stark boy or the Baratheons' show up he'll cut and run?"

"I told you before, the same place as the rest, a tavern. Admittedly most the sell swords I found there didn't put up half the fight or get half as hammered as he was. Also the whole 'I run a free company' bit was a little new too." Bromm said not bothering to lower his voice. "And I doubt the whole cut and run thing, he wants to get paid and I don't think he'd mind having his men fight if he knows their going to win. He just likes taking his time, saves money and lives. It's only lost causes he runs from; that's sensibility not cowardice."

"And I'm sure the last three employers he betrayed would back that up."

"Of course. They'd all admit the wisdom of ensuring that they had paid him more. Well that and giving him and his men better assignments. Last thing an experienced lot of mercenaries like them wants to do is fight, unless they absolutely have to."

"See to me someone like me, some snotty noble, that only tells me something different: they're unreliable and unwilling to fight."

"And I'm telling you as someone who wandered around place to place, country to country, killing for a living, that opinion is wrong. Picking your battles is just as important as winning them; Cosca just does plenty of both. The man's seen even more battle than I have, especially in a command position. He's tucked tail and ran, sure, but he's fought and won in the thick of it; Cosca killed his way out of battles where he was outnumbered seven to one. He outlasted a siege that lasted a year and a half. He's a man you want at your side," Bromm said smiling. "Of course you don't want him at your back, you can't see him there. He'd be more than liable to stab you in it, leaving it all nice and exposed for him. In front of you he'd a head start. At your side he's stuck with you and had to be content with just picking your pockets clean."

Tyrion could do nothing but sigh and continue their ride to the River Gate. As he went from the heavily sanitized portrait of the city streets next to the Red Keep, he soon saw the real deal. Gone were practically sparse and clean streets, and here was the screeching loud, dirty mob. Where vendors sold just ripe vegetables and fruits to a handful of well dressed or armored, almost relieved people, here they sold to a sprawling mass of men and women in rags who screamed and cursed at the merchants selling them browning little things that were a day from being called rotten. A crier yelled happily that a butcher was selling fresh rat to subdue and entice the crowd. Someone near the back throw a handful of dung at one of the vendor, missing wide and hitting the sign of his stall. It was just as Tyrion had suspected, though that did little to comfort him. It was only going to get worse as the war went on.

It took almost an hour to make it to Fishmonger's Quarter and the River Gate. As unpleasant and unnerving as it was, Tyrion made sure to take his time as he went through the sprawling streets of King's Landing to it's very edge near the Blackwater Brush. The city had other stories outside of the desperation of the refugees and the poor to tell him and it was as much as his job to listen as it was Varys'. What he saw from the layout and maintenance of the city troubled him deeply; what Tyion saw of how the patrols acted sent a chill down his spine.

While there was no doubt the bailey's and the parapet walls were sturdy, well provisioned and staffed, only the opposite could be said of the winding streets and from the flow of traffic from them. Not that he could blame Bywater what so ever, as narrow as the streets were they had no real defense built in naturally or otherwise. Nothing the narrow stone and wood structures did more than mildly stymie dozen of ways an army could quickly march to other vital parts of the city. Besides it was totally outside of the City Watch's purview to handle the brown water overflowing from the sewers or night soil festering in piles throughout the city. 'How many of the city's laborers had Ceresi fired to pay for more men to man in the walls in a vain attempt to control costs?' Tyrion thought.'The city will be overrun with rats and drowning in shit and disease in a month.' Just how many sewers where backed up he couldn't fathom. This oversight had only drained more their coffers than keeping them on in the first place would have.

Though as much as that mattered, it did only half so as the patrols in the River Gate's behavior did. Men who should have been riding on horseback through the roads, sit drinking and playing various games of chance at stools and tables near taverns, watch towers, and the stables around them; their horses looking their owners shoulders in some cases and eating off their tables to the laughter of the gold cloaks. Some merchants with wagons of various goods coming with from the either the sea or the wharves from the south are quickly set upon by various guards, each looking for a quick, somewhat subtle bribe or yelling various made up taxes they had somehow forgotten to pay. Tyrion say one of the gold cloaks plant the butt of his spear into the stomach of one of the sailors, ripping some piece of jewelry from the man's neck as he fell to his knees. It seemed the legacy of Commander Bywater's predecessor still ran strong though the City Watch.

At one of the sinkholes catering to sailors and merchants, sat two members of the Kingsguard sharing drinks. Tyrion cursed to himself, there was only one face outside of Jamie's among the Kingsguard he could bear and Oakheart wasn't here. Ser Preston Greenfield was sipping at a cup of mead, pawing playfully at their serving girl who swatted at him and giggled in return, while Ser Mandon Moore loomed over him with just a glass of what looked like water in his hand and large grimace over his face. He would have preferred Trant and Blount over those two. While Trant wasn't half bad with either a mace or sword in his hand, he was almost as craven as Blount; a knight who somehow squeaked through bribery and political maneuvering onto the Kingsguard despite being having as much skill in personal combat as he did. Greenfield was as half the size and twice as cruel as those two, but was born with steel in his hand and as much Tyrion didn't want to admit it, in the spine to match. Moore...was just hard to read all together and along with his martial prowess, was why Jamie had called him the deadliest of the Kingsguard.

More than that he didn't seem to have anything to read at his all besides his commitment to his words and duty, even his previous dedication to Jon Arryn and the Vale long discarded. For most of the Kingsguard, their oaths were bad jokes or at the very least came second to their foibles and vices and emotions. Trant, Blount, and even Jamie had their women outside their duty; Greenfield despite his cutthroat demeanor attended mass at the Great Sept of Baelor or the personal sept in the Red Keep around five to six days a week, no doubt wishing to go every single mourning if possible; and Oakheart might have been as serious as Ser Mandon when he took his vows, but even he had his honor and his and chivalry to go with, a knight who tried to emulate his heroes from the songs. Moore had none of that, all had he had was his white cloak and the dead glassy look in his eyes, a shark's eyes. _'Could you even kill or outplay someone who's already as cold as a corpse?'_ Tyrion asked himself.

"Lord Imp, surprised to see you here. We thought you would have just sent Bronn or Commander Bywater." Greenfield said, mug in hand and milky foam mustache to go with his trim little, red beard. A mean little grin spread across his face, but his eyes couldn't meet Tyrion's for more than a moment; Preston could barely stand to look at Tyrion's face for that matter. He couldn't blame the man, even for a dwarf he wasn't much to look at, with his misshapen head and mismatched eyes.

"Imp? Try Lord Hand or Lannster; or at least Tyrion," Tyrion said, plopping down on a spare chair across from Preston, offering a smile and waving his hand in the air to call for a serving girl "Anyone else here can do it mind you, but you're what? A foot taller than me? Half a foot?"

Ser Mandon just stared at the two of them blankly while Cosca and Bronn laughed aloud. For a moment Tyrion feared Ser Preston would draw his sword or at least slam down the table and get into his face, with the knight just sitting there frozen for a moment, mug hanging limply from his hand. But it appeared his mouth hadn't gone to far this time, as Greenfield looked around at Tyrion's sellswords and then at Mandon and let out of a burst of laughter to exceed that of the other two men. He raised his cup of mead to Tyrion and then downed the entire thing in one glup.

"Well I walked right into that one didn't I folks?" Preston said, smile softening a bit, but the menace not disappearing whatsoever. "Somewhere in the middle to be a little more exact. I'm a couple inches over five feet at best. Still I think it doesn't hinder me that much on the battlefield or the melee when I have my sword or mace in my hand, but that might just because they can't see me down here. I fear not only shouldn't I be talking, but I should be trying to test your patience at all and find my only advantage countered."

Tyrion and his men offered laughs of their own at Greenfield's self deprecating joke, but Tyrion's eyes bore into Preston's, who once again looked away. He was brave enough when Cersei was around and he knew he had the queen's protection, but he was smart enough to realize that not only he was he a pawn to her but between a battle between a Hand and a Queen, find herself lacking when the opponent was some honorable fool like Ned Stark.  
"Don't worry, I'm not about to join the lists yet Ser Preston. On my honor as a Lannister the last thing I'd want to do is embarrass my dear brother Jamie and reveal that I got the brains and brawn in the family," Tyrion added, a false polite little smile on his face. "Though a more important benefit of being small is having a better perspective on what's going on the ground level of the city, don't you think so Ser Preston? What's your opinion about the state of the city?"

"Smelly and overcrowded; though it's not bad to look at." Ser Preston said, as he attention was broken by the arrival of their server coming to pour Tyrion's drink and her ass. "That's not what the queen sent us out for though, just to inspect the walls and the security. The walls are made of hard gray stone that could have catapults throw rocks for a week straight and not dent; the gate is another matter, a serious battering ram team could make relatively quick work out of it if the defenders just sit around and let them go to work. Security is pretty good. This lot seems pretty good at knocking heads and have keen eyes for tax cheats. Smugglers are going to have a hard time getting…."

"Men after my own heart. Outside of that, do they seem to care like professional soldiers? Do they do their mourning drills properly? Are they orderly? Do they perform regular patrols?" Cosca interjected.

"They like to break if charged when it formation? Think any of them won't open the gates if surrounded?" Bronn continued for the mercenary captain.

"Of course they would," Preston snorted. "Few of these men are professional soldiers and almost none could be called men-at-arms. These men are hear to make sure merchants and sailors don't rob the king, and that nobody robs them. Their doing a good job of that."

"I can see that. Between the grift and bribes these fine men have ensured that they have nothing left to hide or even show to our tax collectors and bailiffs," Tyrion said. "Luckily I have just the men for the job to help them along the path to being sufficient soldiers. Ser Preston from now on you and Commander Jackelyn Bywater be in charge of training this contingent of the City Watch. There are eight hundred men stationed in this unit...so you have my permission to take with you up to a half of dozen knights and twice that in men at arms to beat them into decent fighting shape."

The temper Preston contained and Tyrion had excepted earlier finally went off. The serving girl and nearby patrons, either dove under their seats and tables, or ran from the premises; as their tables was sent flying into the air by Preston. Both Tyrion's and Preston's drink spilled into his lap, while Moore's cup of water shattered and spilled on the floor next to three sailors whom were brave enough to just standby and watch the scene unfold with bemused smirks on their faces. Tyrion just used a napkin in his trouser pocket to wipe himself dry as Preston went red in the face and had steel in his. "I will not be insulted dwarf. My duty is to protect to the king and his family, not to train some peasants what side of the spear to use!" Preston spat, so hard that a large spittle of honey yellow phlegm found itself on Tyrion's cheek. Tyrion just blinked in return and cleaned his cheek now.

Ser Mandon hand snapped out like a snake out and twisted Preston's weapon hand behind his back, prompting him to drop his sword. His face was as cold as the coming winter snows as his face leaned next to Preston's. "That's the Queen's brother your waving your weapon at. The King's Hand. He has every right to command you to clean up the king's privy with your tongue, let alone train his armies to protect the boy. Now shut up and go back to the Red Keep before I have to tell the queen about this." Ser Mandon whispered, his voice like rusty steel drawn hard from its scabbard. To be honest Tyrion had never feared Greenfield. Far from it. The man was far from the embarrassment to the Kingsguard Blount was; he truly was a skilled knight with many melee victories under his belt. But both Cosca and Bronn were much deadlier and much faster draws with their weapons if their intervention was needed. Tyrion noted Moore's gesture gladly though. If the man was more tractable that would only make this next task easier to delegate.

"I know it's not as prestigious as beating a little girl but the realm will thank you regardless. Ser Mandon is right, you're dismissed." Tyrion said, as Bronn and Cosca gathered everything and reset the table. Moore held Greenfield as his face got redder and redder, hissing underneath his breathe, and finally let the man go as when he went quiet. Greenfield didn't even bother to stand around to pout and give the Tyrion the evil eye. He just shuffled off onto his horse, cursing underneath his breath.

Moore tuned to face Tyrion, offering a curt but polite nod to the man. "My lord, how can I serve?"

"Do you concur with Ser Preston's assessment of the gold cloaks?" Tyrion asked.

"No, it's worse than he makes out. Maybe a sixth of them could be reliable soldiers and the rest for certain are downright craven or stupid. They aren't being subtle with the brute work or even with the kickbacks their demanding, everyone's tense and you can hear the merchants whispering about much better things will be under Renly or Stannis." Moore answered, his delivery dry for the bad news he was delivering. Not that Tyrion wanted any honey to cover the truth.

"I see," Tyrion said, sighing. "My mountain clansmen are currently scouting the kingswood for any paths or any villages not on any of the maps, and any blind spots where guard or watchtowers could be built to ensure Stannis, Renly, or even bloody Robb Stark. I want you to help them in that duty, you also have my authority to issue gifts and bribes to ensure those little hamlets' loyalty to the crown."

"My lord, I will join them immediately." Ser Mandon said, his voice drowned out by the screams of a old man.

Ser Mandon Moore never bothered to turn around or gawk like the rest of them did, it wasn't the duty bound knights purview. To rest, from Tyrion, to cynical sellsword Bronn, to the legendary solider of fortune Nicomo Cosca, the sight of two guards beating an elderly man in his late seventies with the flat of their blades was a little too much. From the looks of it he wasn't even wealthy, wearing only a simple brown threadbare wool tunic, that one time might have cost slightly more than a pittance. The only things on him besides it and a pair of shoes older than the hills that look like they'd been eaten, was a bronze chain and a tattoo on his left bicep of a black ship, that was common among saliors who fought in the War of Ninepenny Kings.

"Hold on a moment Ser Mandon, we have one further matter to discuss, but I must first deal with this. Bronn? Cosca?" Tyrion said, pointing at the gold cloaks.

"Nothing like a bit of violence to take care of a bit of violence." Cosca chuckled, lifting his sword, sheathe and all, over his shoulder.

"For same reason it works so well we can make a living on it." Bronn said, just cracking his knuckles and following him.

The two approached the duo of guards with a poised posture ready to fight but with the smiles and tones of septons trying their best to save fools about to damn themselves. Tyrion couldn't hear their exact words from over here, and knew nothing of how to read lips like some mummers could, but he thought the situation unfolding plain enough not to need words to understand. At first the two guards leaned over the old man and yelled some obscenity, and then went back to beating him. Cosca tried some joke that only Bronn laughed at, and then gestured towards Tyrion. The two watchmen then did the incredibly stupid thing of stopping their beating for a second time and then strut over towards the two sellswords, pointing their weapons at them.

With in a second, Cosca had managed to disarm the two of them by lighting fast strikes Tyrion knew had to happen in the blink of an eye. From the way the two guards rubbed at themselves, it appeared if he had struck their sword hands and then their helms. While they were recuperating, Bronn kicked the feet out of one, sending him down hard to the stone road, and wrestled the other into a hold with one arm behind his back and the other almost around his neck. As Cosca unsheathed his swords and pointed it at man's throat right as he motioned to get back up, Bronn dragged and half carried the other guard and brought him to Tyrion, as he cursed and when he saw Tyrion's face, wept.

"Milord….I apologize I didn't know..." The man said, his face paler than Moore's eyes.

"Not to steal and murder from an old man in the middle of a crowded street? Common thugs in Flea's Bottom know better. Maybe we should hire them to enforce the King's Justice, eh?" Tyrion asked, letting his disgust show openly on his face. "What possible treasure did you except to fall out of pockets of an old seadog like that? Even if he was a pirate, I doubt they let the oarsmen bury the treasure."

"But he did have monies. I know he did..." He said, as Bronn began to choke him with his right arm, twisting it hard as a vice. His face was a deep purple before he managed to get out more words. "In...in...my...pocket my..pocket..lord."

Tyrion looked at his napkin for a moment, crushed it into a ball, and then nodded at Bronn, who finally let the man's right arm go. The man wheezed loudly, like boiling tea, as Bronn's now free hand went through his pockets. Tyrion knew the man wasn't lying, but for a moment thought in the commutation that he might have dropped or even lost it; so when Bronn finally found it Tyrion was sure of the two of them, he was the one had felt more like he dunked into the ocean and wouldn't ever taste air again. A familiar twisted face on gem greeted him.

The Beherit.

"Where did you get this?" Tyrion demanded, Bronn once again resuming his hold on the man.

"I told you the old man….he must have gotten it from the Narrow Sea. Diamonds go for a lot of money, you can't blame you for wanting my beak to get a little wet." The man said.

"I sure can," Tyrion said "All you did is prove your cruelty and stupidity was within human limits, not legal ones. Call some guards who are actually trustworthy and send them to Bywater. As for you Cosca bring the old man over here. I'd like to ask him a few questions."

"The first one should be how an old man could run so damned fast," Cosca said, shrugging with the tip of his blade still pressed at the prone man's throat. "He's long gone. Want some of my men to snoop around for him. You're paying us enough, but I honestly think it'd be a waste of time. How about that, some honest advice free advice from me. Am I going soft" Cosca asked, turning to Bronn.

"No, it just sounds like a waste of an afternoon." Bronn answered.

"Far be it from me to look a gift horse in the mouth," Tyrion said, laughing but his eyes still on the Beherit. It was a coincidence to be sure, but it still rubbed him the same way coincidences did fisherwives, who than took it as an omen or some other nonsense. "Leave the old fart be Cosca, the man's been through enough as is and I don't care about some grave robbery from before my father had any hair on his chest."

"You want it?" Bronn said, dangling it front of Tyrion. "It goes with your family's colors really well. You'll need a chain for it though, old man left with the original."

"Funny." Tyrion said, gaze still transfixed on the gem. "But you can keep it, you found it. "

Bronn just shrugged and shoved the pendant into his pocket. As it left his sight ended, so did his fascination with the supposedly mystic trinket. It would make a decent religious gift to grant to the High Septon, but his Holiness would probably prefer lamb breast, covered a fine gravy, with burnt greens and crunchy lemon cakes. Besides the chain he had in mind would be much to large for it, as much as he would like to present the Egg of the King to Stannis if he ever came by sea.

"Now where were we Ser Mandon? Ah that's right...at the end of the sword pointed coasts of Blackwater Rush past both the King's Gate and the Mud Gate, no matter what I'd like to build two small keeps that align. I'll give you the specifications I drew up, I'll trust you to find laborers and architects who could keep their mouths shut. I'll be joining you over the coming weeks and months, and will find the sailors for the job; because we need them to have the tightest lips of all."


End file.
